


The Scars under My Skin

by jvo_taiski



Series: WHAT YOU WERE AND WHAT THEY MADE YOU [1]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Loss of Identity, M/M, Pre-Hunger Games, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:10:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26430130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jvo_taiski/pseuds/jvo_taiski
Summary: Only his beauty is more of a curse than anything, because if he wasn’t beautiful and brooding and tragic, he wouldn’t be kneeling on the floor of a Capitol flat.It’s ruining him, and watching him spiral is ruining Finnick.AKA the 73rd Hunger Games don’t break Gale, but what comes afterwards might.
Relationships: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair (referenced), Gale Hawthorne/Finnick Odair
Series: WHAT YOU WERE AND WHAT THEY MADE YOU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1921123
Comments: 12
Kudos: 52





	1. Blank Canvas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: 
> 
> \- themes of forced prostitution  
> \- canon-typical violence and killing children for sport  
> \- drug use

Gale’s back is bowed to him, an expanse of unblemished white that glows pale in the Capitol city lights. It’s early in the morning, still dark, but the rumble of traffic hasn’t ceased and it bleeds through the window, along with orange streetlights and the purple colour of impending dawn. The muscles covering Gale’s shoulder blades shift and tremble over each other as he cries—silently, as if he’s trying to maintain some semblance of control. So Finnick doesn’t say anything, just lets him have his own quiet moment in dignity.

Briefly, he wonders what Gale’s back would have looked like _before._ Before the Games and before the Capitol procedures that came with it. They’re designed to make children desirable (which is messed up enough as it is) but they also do a damn good job of removing any individuality that comes from a birthmark, or a freckle or a scar. It’s just another thing that strips away the humanity from the glorified and tragic kids on screen, all of whom are as good as dead.

Then, he wonders if every surviving victor’s life is like this—the clear cut divide of _before_ and _after_ the Games—the distinction between bad, and worse. Maybe some of the older careers remain unchanged, brainwashed enough not to care. But then again, even Brutus is just as guilty of drinking himself unconscious after his tributes die.

Finnick knows that life in the districts is never easy for anyone—he’s had it easy, all things considered. But he would consider his _after_ on par with, if not worse than, the other victors.

He wonders what Gale’s _before_ was like and whether he had enough to eat. The tributes from District 12 were normally shaking and starving, knowing they were going to die. Gale was different. Still skinny, but lean. And tall. Eyes flaring, cold, calculating. He navigated the arena with cruel command and watched the other tributes swing from his snares with indifference and honestly, Finnick had thought him almost psychotic.

Normally, he’d wear a brooding expression—once, Finnick called it a resting bitch face and he’d actually laughed. That gave Finnick a small sense of pride and brought him a smile. But sometimes, especially after a particularly rough night out or after an intense fight, Gale lets his features slip into something feral and ugly, a snarl brimming with barely concealed hate.

Though, the audience loved it during the Games. It was the way he carried himself that was admirable. On the outside, he showed nothing but a level head and focussed determination. Indifference to anything insignificant around him. Of course, now Finnick knows it’s a mask, a distraction, but Gale’s slipping, slowly drifting further and further away.

 _Scars_ he thinks. That’s what would have decorated his back before the Capitol wiped it blank. He’s a hunter, after all, and he’s no stranger to the mines. If the scars were still there, Finnick would have splayed his hands over them, mapped out each and every one of them and listened to Gale telling him where he got them all. Sometimes, they would be too insignificant to remember but sometimes they’d come with a funny story and Finnick would watch with rapt attention while Gale’s mouth would quirk up in amusement when telling it. Sometimes the story would be trivial, like a cut on his knee from a fall in pre-school and some of them might have been darker—hunting’s illegal on Capitol land. Finnick wonders if Gale’s ever been lashed.

Finnick was, once, on his hand. In school. For mouthing off his teacher—he said something about the justice system being unfair. He doesn’t remember what exactly, because he was reaped the next day. All his memories around that time are kind of hazy, which is a shame.

Finnick’s _before_ was beautiful and isn’t something he wants to forget anymore, so now that it’s been long enough that the memories are bittersweet instead of painful, he treasures each and every one of them in their own corners in his mind.

* * *

The first time he meets Gale, he doesn’t know what to do with the boy standing in front of him. He’s intimidating, and that’s saying something—these days, it takes a lot to intimidate Finnick. He knew he was coming, of course. That’s what it said in the pretty little rose-scented envelope they sent to his doorstep.

_Expect a roommate. You are now his mentor._

Well, he’s got the scowling boy in front of him now. And it doesn’t take a genius to know why the Capitol wants Finnick to mentor him, and what for.

They regard each other for a moment more. Gale’s got his trademark brooding look on—it’s sharp and piercing and his lips are pulled into a pout. He’s got his arms crossed in front of him. Defensive. For all Finnick saw on TV, he’s never seen the kid face-to-face before and he’s intriguing. The Capitol normally glorifies the victor, cakes them in makeup and forces them to put on an act but at the end of the day, it’s still a terrified kid underneath.

Gale? Not so much. He looks every bit as ruthless as he did on screen.

Sometimes it’s hard to connect the child with the monster they become on screen but with Gale, it’s frighteningly easy to see the boy who single-handedly killed half the tributes mirrored in the man standing in his kitchen in a T-shirt. It’s disconcerting.

And it’s not hard to see why the Capitol sent him here. Finnick knew they would, but he wasn’t expecting it to be so soon—it hasn’t even been a year. The boy’s just completed his victory tour. He’s barely had 6 months back home.

But he’s cursed with good looks and Finnick assumes there’s ample Capitol demand. Hell, he’s gorgeous—even now, standing in the washed-out light reflecting off white tiles in the kitchen, the lines of his square jaw and straight nose are obvious. Finnick can see lean muscle under the T-shirt and his startling grey eyes are shrouded with straight, dark eyebrows. He’s the image of classic beauty and that’s even without the smoulder the Capitol can add with touches of makeup.

His attitude doesn’t help his situation, although Finnick is pretty certain that if he knew it would land him in this position, he would have done his best to be as boring as possible. His whole act for the interviews throughout and after the games was completely cold: he’s rough, brooding, untouchable. And whether he intends to be or not, he’s mysterious. A picture-perfect dream come true for the Capitol’s marketing.

Finnick knows the Capitol. This is the kind of persona they eat up. People are surprisingly willing to pay indecent amounts of money even for a dinner date with their fantasy, and Finnick knows that Gale’s going to be popular. The latest Capitol fad. They’ll be lining up in the streets to get a glimpse, never mind what lengths they’d go through to unravel that mystery in the sheets. And here he is, guaranteed to come with compliance, a fake smile and a bow slapped on top to complete the pretty picture.

He hates it. The notion still makes Finnick feel sick, but after so many years, he’s able to push it deep down.

“So.” Finnick breaks the silence. He’s not sure what to say, which is rare. But then again, he’s never done this before. There’s no point making introductions, they both know who the other is.

“So.” Gale echoes, scratching at a chip on the marble counter. He speaks softer than Finnick was expecting.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“To take a nap.” Gale deadpans. He stops moving his hands. Finnick doesn’t know whether he should laugh awkwardly or say something, and suspects that’s what Gale wanted.

“For real. Do you, or don’t you know?”

Gale’s lip curls into a sneer. “I have my suspicions. There aren’t a lot of things they’d need the Capitol’s biggest whore to teach me.”

Finnick frowns. Sure, he expected that kind of attitude but it still stings a little. He doesn’t answer, choosing to stare Gale down instead.

To his surprise, he caves and looks down. “They want me to sell my body,” he says softly.

Finnick sighs, and hesitates. “Let’s get something straight,” he says, because he can’t be bothered to deal with euphemisms. He thinks that in this case, it’s going to be easier to rip the bandage off quickly. “Just for the record. They don’t _want_ to sell your body, Gale. They _will_ sell your body, because there’s demand and it makes money. And before you continue deluding yourself, that’s not your body anymore. It never was yours. It’s theirs. The Capitol’s. The sooner you accept it, the easier it will be. You called me the Capitol’s biggest whore before, and unfortunately, you’re damn right—but if you think you’re not about to be a Capitol whore yourself, then you’re bullshitting.”

“I’m not selling my body.” His voice is still steady. Even. And a little threatening.

“Yes, yes you are.”

“They can’t make me,” he snaps, but Finnick sees something wavering. Gale’s not an idiot. He seems to slump before him. “I can’t.” His voice breaks a little at the end, showing Finnick the first sign of weakness he’s ever seen in this kid—he’s never caved before, even on screens, even in the Games with the blood of a 16 year old on his hands. Finnick’s tribute that year, from District 4. “I can’t sell my body.”

“It’s not yours, remember?”

Finnick’s being harsh and he knows it, but Gale’s smart. He’ll accept it soon enough anyway.

He clenches his jaw and folds his arms again. “I’d rather die.”

“Dramatic.”

“To hell with being dramatic. I’ll kill the person who tries running their hands over me.”

“Sure. Go ahead. I’d pay to see that. Snow won’t like it though, and you won’t like what happens next.”

Gale swears and runs a hand through his hair, eyes blazing. He has the air of someone looking for something to hit, and Finnick hopes he’s not an option, although he wouldn’t blame him if he did.

“Does it ever end? First they make me slaughter my way out of a fucking arena and now they want my dignity as well?”

“That was never yours.”

“Why are they doing this to me?”

Finnick shrugs. He’s thought about it for a long time, primarily during the years after he’d just won the games, and he’s figured it out by now. “Why do they do it to anyone? It’s nothing personal. They don’t do it as some twisted form of torture. They don’t care about you, Gale. They care about themselves and their own agenda and you’re not a person to them, you’re a way of satisfying the Capitol. Of making money. There’s demand, and they expect you to cater to it—they have ways of ensuring you cater to it.”

Finnick takes a break to inspect the boy in front of him. He’s impassive as ever, glaring at a spot somewhere over Finnick’s head, so he sighs and carries on.

“The Hunger Games barely scratches the surface of the barbarism and corruption in the government, and you’re fucking dense if you think otherwise. If you don’t do what they say, what do you think happens? Did you really think you could say _No_ and move on? Go home? Get back to wallowing in your victory? Well, too bad. You’re not the first victor who’s thought as much, who thought they were above the control of the Capitol. Take a look at Haymitch and tell me why he’s got everything he needs but hasn’t got a family.”

At least Gale looks like he’s listening now, but he looks no less angry. Finnick doesn’t blame him—he hates it just as much.

“And there’s nothing you can fucking do about it. Any of it,” Finnick snaps, letting the bitterness leak into his voice. There’s no point hiding it from Gale because by the looks of things, they’re in it together now, whether they like it or not.

Gale grits his teeth. “So you just let them do what they want with you? Is that it?”

“That’s exactly it.” He takes a step forwards. “It’s the rest of your life now. And you’d better start getting used to it. You can’t resist, there’s no point.”

Gale’s eyes flash at that, and Finnick’s suddenly angry too. Angry and tired of it all. “You think I didn’t try?” he scowls. “The minute I realised what the hell they do in the Capitol, I took the next freight back home. My uncle was dead the next day and I’m not dumb enough to believe it was a coincidence. Our lives are worth nothing to the Capitol. His life was worth about as much as a warning. Who’s back home, Gale? Is your mamma still alive? Got a sister? A brother? Best friend? What about a girl?”

He watches with grim satisfaction as Gale blanches. Finnick knows he’s hitting home.

“So?” he taunts. It’s cruel, but it’s going to get much worse. “Who’ve you got waiting for you back in District 12?”

“My mother.”

Finnick’s thrown, for a moment. He wasn’t expecting Gale to actually answer or for his voice to dip again and wobble.

“The kids. Rory, Vick and Posy. There’s Thom. And—and Katniss.”

He swallows with difficultly and to Finnick’s complete shock, he’s shaking, finally looking so unlike the calculated killer in the arena. He looks very vulnerable, and very human. And like a kid, even though he’s just gone eighteen.

And Finnick wonders if that’s who he was doing it for, if they were the reason he turned into an experienced killer without batting an eyelid.

“They can’t.”

“They can,” says Finnick, but gentler this time. He knows that look. It’s finally sinking in that he can’t afford to step a toe out of line because he sure as hell can’t afford a warning.

“So.” He’s pacing now, agitation written all over his body. “So. If I fuck up, they get hurt.”

Finnick knows he’s mostly talking to himself but nods affirmative anyway. He’s finally getting it—he leans back to let Gale process it. Let it sink it.

With a curse, Gale suddenly stops with his back bowed to Finnick. “It would be easier if I offed myself right now,” he mutters, again mostly talking to himself. The desperation’s setting in.

“You really think so?” Finnick knows the answer to that one.

“No—it’s just—fuck. Maybe it would. Then Snow won’t have a reason to hurt them, you said so yourself, he doesn’t care. But—” Gale swivels around to meet Finnick’s eyes, looking anguished. He’s pretty much ripping his hair out. “But they just watched me win the Games, for them. They think it’s over, they think I’m safe. They’ve got enough to eat for once. They’ve got a house. They… they need me to stay alive.”

Finnick just watches him coolly, letting him come to terms with the realisation that he’s stuck in this pitiful existence for the rest of his miserable life.

Gale lets out a sigh and seems to deflate. His eyes drift close and Finnick’s heart clenches because he looks so helpless in the moment—he has to resist the urge to turn away and give him some privacy because Gale looking weary is alien. It’s private, it’s personal and it shouldn’t be out in the light, least of all in a squeaky clean capitol kitchen.

He’s never seen this side of him on cameras. Then again, Finnick isn’t sure why he’s surprised—he, of all people, should know that the media can’t be trusted, and that however difficult it is to pull off, some people are capable of deceiving prying cameras.

“I should have just died in the Games,” he whispers and Finnick laughs at that, low and rough and bitter.

“Finally figured it out? Once a tribute, always a tribute; the Games don’t end. They never do.”

* * *

Hunting was just another thing that the Capitol took from him and it leaves a hollow in his chest. He used to love it. It used to feel like home—some place where he could voice his opinions, laugh freely and sometimes even forget himself.

But in the end, it’s just one more thing they managed to pry away from his grasping fingers, Gale muses. Just another thing he can’t do anymore.

The first weekend back from the Games, he goes hunting with Katniss. It’s more out of habit than anything—he doesn’t need the food, but he supposes she could use the help.

They don’t seem to know what to say to each other but that’s alright. They never talked much anyway and the silence is comfortable. Comforting, after weeks of nothing but screaming and cameras. He feels safe in the woods and knows he doesn’t have to act any different around Katniss—she’s a steady presence. She’s familiar and she grounds him.

He enjoys it at first. It’s early morning and the air is still crisp. Gale savours the familiar touch of twigs and foliage beneath his feet, and the weak yellow rays of sun hitting his face just right. His mind is blissfully clear and his old jacket (a gift from Thom) smells familiar. Mint, grass and a hint of tobacco—if he concentrates really hard, sometimes he catches a fleeting whiff of the cheap cologne Thom sprayed it with. He used to think it was a shame that the cigarette smoke clings more than the perfume but it’s familiar now. He’s used to it.

His feet know the way to his first snare better than they know the way to his bed in the dark, so he’s reached it before he’s had time to think about it. On reflex, he reaches up grab it but he stops short.

It’s not a rabbit anymore. It’s a kid, hanging bloodied and broken in his snare, lifeless and limp. Her eyes are rolled back in her skull and her mouth hangs open. Ghastly. Gale remembers the sound of her scream, but not her name.

Hell, he never paid enough attention to know before and now, afterwards, he’s doing his best to never find out. She’ll stay _District 5 tribute_ for the rest of his life.

“Gale?” Katniss finishes cutting the rabbit free and gives him a _look._ A lot of people look at him like that these days: wary. Hesitant. Like they don’t know what to say and like he’s about to snap. Maybe he is.

Haymitch says they’ll get over it in a couple months, depending on how normal he acts.

“Gale?”

He realises he’s frozen and she’s still staring at him like that. So, he forces a neutral look onto his face and quickly excuses himself to go and collect plants. Caught in the memory, he tries to ground himself— _don’t look at the rabbit, Gale_. He steadies his breathing and forces himself to concentrate. That plant is edible, he thinks. Yes.

He busies himself collecting shrubbery, focusing on the very real sensations of dirt under his fingernails and greens brushing over the palms of his hands. The ache of his knees on the ground—it hasn’t rained recently. The prick of a thorn on his skin.

It’s kind of funny, really. Ironic. That in the arena, Gale had no trouble reducing the other tributes _(not other tributes, other kids)_ to little more than desperate animals. His prey. But now that he’s out and he’s alive, he can’t even look a fucking bunny rabbit in the eye without picturing the people he’s killed in the same way. Dangling from snares, it was easy to finish them off with a simple knife to the throat. He was expecting more blood to come out but like a true hunter, he didn’t even get his hands dirty. He feels like he should have.

Later that day, he refuses dinner. He feels light-headed and strangely disconnected when he looks at the small bones his siblings leave behind.

But he does as he always has and forces it out of his mind. He’s being ridiculous, meat is meat. He can’t not eat it.

So the next time his mother serves up a stew, he grits his teeth and forces it down and the next time he hunts, the rabbit is just a rabbit again.

But he can never quite get the feeling away. It feels like it’s crawling out of his skin and Gale thinks that maybe, no matter what he does, he’ll always feel dirty.

* * *

It’s impressive; the way Gale’s expression can change like the weather out at sea. Finnick’s known him for all of 20 minutes and he’s already disconcerted, left desperately clutching at the lines Gale leaves and floundering after his train of thought.

Finnick takes a deep breath and looks up to meet his intense stare.

“Are you a virgin?” he asks. It’s down to business, now. Gale’s gone back to the kid in the arena—his jaw is set and the fire’s back in his eyes.

“No,” his voice is clipped, professional. “But I’ve only ever done it with girls.”

“Fine. Alright. Are you into guys as well?”

Gale grits his teeth. “Does it matter?”

“Nope,” says Finnick brusquely. “You get raped all the same. But sometimes, it makes it easier to force yourself to enjoy it.”

“That’s impossible,” he snorts. Finnick winces.

“Easier to force yourself to pretend to enjoy it,” he corrects.

Gale scowls at the counter. “Fine. Yes, then. I like men too. But I probably won’t like either after a year of this shit.”

He winces again. “Fair enough. Wouldn’t be surprised. It’s not uncommon.”

There’s a pause as Finnick wonders where the hell to go next. “Kiss me.”

“What?” Gale’s clearly thrown at the bluntness of the command but he schools his features again and steps forwards, until they’re sharing the same air.

“Well?” says Finnick. “I’m right here. Go ahead. We’ve gotta start somewhere.”

And just like that, Gale’s closed the distance between them and is pressing their lips together. They’re Capitol-soft but he kisses exactly how Finnick would expect Gale Hawthorne to kiss. It’s rough and demanding, and somehow simultaneously cold. Impersonal. He’s moving their lips together with precision and skill, but it’s not enough—Finnick catches Gale’s bottom lip with his tongue as he pulls away.

“Well?” echoes Gale. Maybe Finnick’s imagining things, but his eyes look a little darker.

“You think that’s enough?”

A flash of something ugly crosses his face before he dives in again. It’s wild and demanding and Finnick finds himself stumbling backwards into the kitchen counter. Gale’s hands are vice-like around his waist and he uses his tongue like a weapon, and before he knows it, against his will, Finnick’s knees are actually kind of weak.

He lets himself get lost for another minute before pushing him off lightly. “Right. Okay.” He tries unsuccessfully to steady his breathing as he surveys the man in front of him. “That was good.”

Gale’s still pressed flush against him and his face only inches away. He has to tip his head up a little to look him in the eye—Gale’s slightly taller, broader. He’s filled out a little since the games now that he’s got a steady diet and he’s still scowling a little, his eyes stormy, even though he’s flushed and as breathless as Finnick.

“Now, we, uhhh…” Finnick’s distracted. It’s not his fault, not when Gale’s burning holes through his skin with that glare of his. Besides, he’s never done this before. How the hell does one go about professionally training a Capitol courtesan?

Gale steps back and runs a hand through his hair. Finnick’s pretty sure if he grinds his teeth any more, they’ll wear out. “Hey listen, quit messing around, will you? I’ve got a week and then I’m out in the deep end. They’ll make me fuck a guy and—” he hesitates, then seems to spit the next words out. “And then I’ll have to take a cock up the ass.”

Finnick studies the way he’s wringing his hands together and staring off into the distance. He’s trying to think of what the next step is, what to say, when Gale speaks again. This time it’s so quiet, it takes him a second to process the words.

“Can you fuck me?”

“Huh?”

“Can you fuck me?” he repeats, louder. “It’ll be easier if it’s not my first time with something up there.”

“Yes—I mean—” hell, Finnick’s floundering over his words again. “There’s toys for that, Capitol toys. I don’t need to go anywhere near your arse if you don’t want me too—”

“I know, but—I don’t know,” he’s blushing now, his gaze darting all over the place. “It’s just that I thought maybe. You could. You know. I don’t know, show me what the hell to do? I just thought it would be easier if—I mean, if you would be willing to—”

Finnick gets what he’s trying to say. And something inside him breaks as he watches the boy in front of him squirm—this could well be the last time he ever enjoys sex, and Finnick’s honoured that Gale trusts him enough with it.

“Hey. It’s okay. Whatever you need, I’ll be right there.”

* * *

“What’s it like, being a victor?”

He’s finally asked it, then. After almost 5 months. Gale leans back next to his old best friend and frowns at the sky. They’re lying in their old spot at the back of the meadow—there’s an overgrown branch that peeks through the fence and bows down low, skimming the ground and curving into a seat, or a backrest.

They’d built a fort here when they were little, with Davy, Curt and Julip, out of other branches they’d collected from along the fence. It was a valiant effort for a five eight-to-nine-year-olds, but it wasn’t secured down and it was damp and tiny and had too many insects. Gale distinctly remembers screaming when a particularly big spider landed on him—Thom nearly pissed himself laughing, but helped him flick it off anyway. There’s no way Gale would have acted anything but cool if any of the other boys were there, but with Thom it was different. 

He hasn’t spoken to Davy in years, even though they were in the same class at school, and Curt’s been in the mines for a year now. Julip’s dead. Measles, and the flu in the dead of winter. It wasn’t pretty—Gale can’t remember what his laugh sounds like anymore, although he does remember his long, raspy breaths and the shuddering cough that plagued him to the very end. Though to be honest, he didn’t ever really get a chance for his death to sink in— because suddenly, Gale’s dad was dead too and at 13 years old, he had a family to feed.

Thom’s still here though, even if the fort isn’t. And even after watching his best friend slaughter children in cold blood on TV, he’s still not afraid to lie side by side in the meadow and share a cigarette he’s lifted from his boss. Gale appreciates it. The rest of District 12 can hardly make eye contact—they don’t really know what to do with him anymore. Haymitch was right though. It’s getting better, even though he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to look Emilia’s parents in the eye again.

Gale props himself up on his elbows to consider the question. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it before, he has—but he isn’t sure he knows the answer himself.

Thom’s peacefully sprawled next to him, his eyes closed, and Gale studies his friend’s rugged features while he thinks. He absent-mindedly runs his fingers over the bark on the branch, over the initials carved there: G + T. They did that with the same pocket knife they’d made a blood pact with—Thom stole both the idea and the knife from his oldest cousin. He’s always had quick fingers.

 _Best friends until we die._ How charming. The corners of Gale’s mouth lift—it’s hardly his fault that he used to have a massive stinking crush on his best friend. It’s only a shame the Capitol erased his matching scar from his palm.

“Well?” Thom opens his eyes and the grey looks almost blue in the sunlight. Gale reaches down to trace the just-visible sparse smattering of hair connecting his eyebrows. He doesn’t have that anymore and sort of misses it—Capitol laser hair removal took care of that for life.

Thom scowls good-naturedly and swats his hand away.

“Well?” he repeats, ignoring Gale’s jibe about looking like a bear.

He just laughs bitterly and flops back down onto the grass. It’s cool against his cheeks. He thinks about the snares again, and the way 6 of those tributes looked tangled up and lifeless. He thinks about Haymitch, and the way he still can’t sleep without white liquor and a knife under his pillow, and he thinks about his own long nights where his thoughts are too loud and he can’t do anything apart from wait until dawn starts creeping along his walls with grey fingers.

Then, he thinks about his mother’s expression when he stepped off the train and his siblings running to crush him into a hug. His heart swells in pride when he pictures Posy’s look of wonder after she stepped into their new house and the way Vick spent the whole day pressing buttons on the telephone and how Rory’s finally got a desk to do his homework. And they’re safe until the next reaping.

“It’s nice, being able to eat,” Gale finally replies.

Thom laughs humourlessly and passes him the cigarette.

* * *

“You’ve cleaned up? Down there?”

“Yeah.” Gale looks nervous as he fiddles with the hem of his shirt. It’s easy to tell he’s only just turned 18 when he takes his guarded expression down.

“Okay. You’re sure about this?”

“Yeah,” he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose. “Just get it over and done with. Please.”

“Hey,” Finnick closes the distance between them and frowns when he tenses up. He knows that for Gale, this is foreign territory but he can’t approach it like he approaches the games. It will hurt more if he does. “Hey, Gale. You’re going to have to relax.”

Gale swallows and shivers slightly when Finnick runs a gentle thumb over his cheekbone, but he does seem to loosen up a tiny bit.

“It’s okay to enjoy this, you know. Try. It’ll be easier.”

“I—yeah. Okay,” he opens his eyes and Finnick’s forgotten just how grey they are. Then, he seems to steel himself and goes in for a kiss—it’s as rough as usual and Finnick leans back, frowning, even as Gale seems to chase his lips.

“Gale,” he repeats, gently. “Relax. Let me.”

Gale just looks down at him, looking slightly lost. His lips are parted slightly and Finnick can feel his breath on his nose. It smells like toothpaste.

“Hey,” he says again, running soft hands over Gale’s broad chest. He can feel his heartbeat stuttering under his touch. Chances are that he’s never been the one not in control, in a sexual situation. Or any situation, to be honest. Handing over the reins is difficult in the best of times, and the level of trust Finnick’s asking for is pretty huge. “Relax.”

Gale gives a shaky laugh into the crook of his neck and he shivers slightly at the sensation. “How?”

“Do you trust me?”

“I have to, don’t I?”

“I’ll take care of you. I promise. I know it’s hard but I swear this is going to be so much easier if you let me take care of you.”

“I know.”

Finnick takes a deep breath and looks up into Gale’s earnest eyes. Slowly, he backs him up against the table and places a hand on his chest, before capturing his lips in a soft kiss, keeping it slow and gentle.

Whenever Gale tries to grab him closer and increase their pace, Finnick backs off and nips at his ear instead, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses down his jaw. Teasing. He carries on until Gale stops trying to follow his lips and relaxes properly, sighing into Finnick’s lips.

Every one of Finnick’s movements is careful, measured, so Gale won’t freeze up or get nervous. Ideally, he wants him begging for it by the end but Finnick knows anal isn’t everyone’s thing. The best he can do is try get him relaxed enough not to mind it. He’s aiming for a ‘ _that wasn’t too bad’_ but a _‘that was nice’_ would be preferable.

But Gale’s clearly getting impatient now. Finnick deepens the kiss and slides his hands down to cup his ass and to his surprise, Gale actually moans into his mouth. The sound runs through Finnick’s whole body and it spurs him on—his kisses are less controlled and their teeth clash a few times, but it seems like Finnick’s doing something right because he’s finally stopped trying to wrestle control and is letting him take over completely. Finnick feels an animalistic thrill of satisfaction when he forces his thigh between Gale’s legs and feels something hard growing there. He’s interested, for sure.

When they break apart, Gale’s gasping huge breaths of air and his pupils are dilated.

“That’s alright?” Finnick asks.

“Yeah.”

“Bedroom?”

Gale hesitates, tensing up again, so Finnick distracts him by slyly dragging his thigh over his crotch. He tips his head back and lets out the most beautiful moan, leaving Finnick to seize the chance to mark up the pale expanse of skin on his throat. It’s capitol-smooth and looks like it could do with a bruise or bite mark or two.

“Okay, fine. Bedroom,” he manages to choke out and Finnick smiles in satisfaction, before licking the blooming red mark on his neck one last time and straightening up.

They can barely keep their hands off each other on the way there, no matter what thoughts Finnick had of keeping it professional before. Well, if it works it works—he’s awoken something primal in Gale, something purely instinctual. His eyes are glazed as he lets Finnick pull his shirt off and push him down on the sheets.

Finnick doesn’t know if he’s faking it or what, but Gale’s a damn good bottom. And he wasn’t sure what the hell he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the beautiful little noises escaping from Gale’s throat now. Maybe he thought Gale would be the same in the sheets as he acts on screen—strong, and silent. How fucking wrong he was.

Gale’s arching into his touch and he can’t seem to stop the sighs spilling from his lips as Finnick touches him all over. He watches the boy in front of him in breathless awe and can’t help wondering why this is really the first time he’s ever done this.

It’s probably the last time he’ll ever enjoy it, though. Finnick swallows and shoves his bitterness aside, determined to do his best to make this perfect, just for Gale. It’s the least he can do, really.

He frowns and stills when Finnick first runs a finger over his hole but quickly relaxes when he puts his mouth back on Gale’s dick. By the time he’s got three fingers in, Gale’s half-sobbing and fucking himself down again and again.

And he’s not the only one who’s desperate—Finnick’s cock is leaking through his underwear and he furiously palms himself, trying to ease some of the tension.

“Fuck,” Gale groans and arches his back entirely off the bed when Finnick manages to find that spot inside of him. His thin lips are swollen and red from biting down, even after Finnick assured him he could be as loud as he wanted. And fuck, in the moment, Finnick doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to stick his dick in someone more than he does now.

“Fuck. Gale…”

“Do it.”

“You’re 100% sure?” He has to check, even if he thinks he’ll explode if he doesn’t do something about the problem between his legs _right now._ But he knows he’ll never be able to forgive himself if this isn’t something he’s sure about.

“Please.”

And fuck, in the moment it’s the prettiest sight he’s ever seen: Gale’s looking at him flushed, with dark eyes, asking for it.

Finnick tries to start slow, he really does. But when Gale’s so fucking tight and begging for more? Finnick’s not a god; he’s only got so much self-control. So he lets himself get lost in his warmth, in the sensation of being surrounded by everything _Gale;_ he lets himself choke on a moan as he ruts up into him and then _oh hell,_ Gale’s actually coming untouched and he’s _tight,_ so tight—

Finnick can’t get to sleep afterwards.

He just lies there staring at the ceiling, one hand absently drawing circles on Gale’s bare back. There’s a hopeless feeling weighing him down, anchoring him to his bed. He’s thirsty, but can’t summon the will to climb out from under Gale’s arm.

In a way, he almost feels bad for enjoying it, because he did. He really did. The sex was great. Finnick hasn’t come so hard in ages; for the amount of people he sticks his dick in on a regular. Sure, he did his best to make sure Gale enjoyed it and by the looks of things he did, but still. There’s something gross crawling under his skin.

He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the Capitol. Gale was pretty much forced and Finnick feels awful for even liking it—it feels wrong. The whole concept is twisted, sick.

And somehow it hits home when it’s not just Finnick’s body being passed around anymore. Gale doesn’t deserve this, nobody does, but there’s nothing Finnick can do about it, nothing he can do to protect the boy in his bed however hard he tries. Because that’s all it comes down to, now—Gale’s his responsibility.

He lets all the anger and bitterness and helplessness out in a single tear, which cuts through the sweat on his skin and soaks into the pillow. Tomorrow, he’ll carry on mentoring Gale and tomorrow, he’ll keep his chin up for his sake.

* * *

“You’re not mentoring this year, are you honey?”

“No,” Gale doesn’t turn around to face his mother. He knows that she knows he’s not mentoring, but she doesn’t know how to connect with him anymore. He’s changed too much. And he doesn’t know what to say to her either, after six months apart—in the beginning, he visited as much as he could spare. But when it started to hurt, Gale stopped. It’s not fair on his family, he knows, but he’s too drained to try.

“I can’t mentor yet, I’m too young. Maybe next year, when I’m 19. To give Haymitch a break.”

He doesn’t even notice his hands are shaking until his mum reaches out to help him do his top button— but he flinches back instinctively.

His heart breaks a little when she lowers her hand and looks at him with eyes full of sadness. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look so old.

“Gale—”

“I’ll be fine, mum,” he says softly and then closes his eyes as he lets her run a comforting thumb over his cheek. It’s a familiar gesture, she’s done it for all his life, but he still has to repress a shudder. She leaves her hand there for a second more to catch the tear that’s escaped his eye.

“You’re never home, honey.”

“I know.” His voice breaks. “I’m sorry.”

“What are they doing to you? In the Capitol? What did they do to my baby?”

She’s his mother after all. She’s not an idiot and she knows him, better than anyone. But he can’t tell her, even if she’s probably guessed.

“Nothing, mum. I’m fine, I promise. I’m just a little high-strung.” He forces a smile to his face, for his mum’s sake, and ignores the tremor in his hands as he finishes straightening his collar. Then, he grabs his blazer and brushes past her. “Come on, Rory’s probably waiting.”

He can practically feel her frown on his back as he leaves but he doesn’t look back. He can see Effie’s obnoxious hair from the window—a pink wig this year— and she’s standing on Haymitch’s lawn, screaming at him.

Gale doesn’t want to think about what he’d do if Rory’s name is picked out of Effie’s stupid glass bowl. Probably kill someone, then himself. Because for the first time in his life, there’s nothing he can do to protect his baby brother and he hates himself for it.

* * *

The alcohol is singing in his blood as he stumbles home, occasionally stopping to lean against walls for support. He probably looks awful. He certainly feels awful. Briefly, he wonders what the tabloids would say if they saw him on screens like this, reeling like Haymitch.

He stops outside the flat to spill the contents of his stomach down the gutter. His vomit is thin and red and tastes vile. It sort of looks like blood as it’s swept away down the drain—they were televising his Hunger Games and he couldn’t bring himself to eat anything. Only try and drink everything away by taking glass upon glass of the strange red cocktail they were serving.

He’s sobered up a bit by the time he manages to put his key in the door the right way and stumble in. Gale’s probably home already—the door’s not locked properly. Finnick stands by the sink and chugs three glasses of water before slowly starting on a fourth one. The kitchen is dead silent and looks eerie—it’s that time of the night when even the city seems to be holding its breath. Finnick’s thoughts are still pleasantly blurred around the edges even if his body does feel like shit.

He needs to sleep and he knows it. He’ll have a motherfucker of a headache in the morning. Maybe Gale will make him breakfast and maybe he’ll even bring it to him in bed, if he begs hard enough.

There’s a thin strip of fluorescent light spilling out from the bathroom and Finnick’s drawn to it. He should probably take a piss, after all the water he’s managed to drink.

“Gale?” Finnick pushes the door open gently.

The water in the toilet bowl’s a funny colour. It’s stained neon pink and there’s an empty packet of pills floating on the surface. Gale’s slumped next to it, knees drawn up to his chest, head hanging lax.

For a moment, Finnick doesn’t know what to do. The whole scene looks too surreal, too fake.

Their spotlessly clean capitol bathroom looks the same as it always does: the little lights embedding the edges of the mirror still flicker and buzz, re-emphasising the harsh while tiling and the lime green toilet seat, that Gale used to make fun of. It’s all still and clinically white and smells like bleach and toothpaste.

Gale’s skin is so pale it blends into the walls. He looks like he’s been edited into a two-dimensional scene. There’s something about him that looks so fucking wrong under the harsh fluorescent lighting—his skin looks almost translucent, and grey. Drawn out. A shell.

The bruises on his neck are stamped crimson against his throat and chest, painfully obvious against the ivory skin. There’s a harsh smear of red on his mouth and with a funny jolt, Finnick realises it’s blood. It stands out luridly, giving the whole scene a dreamlike quality. A sense of dread finally pushes past the alcohol-induced haze in Finnick’s brain.

“Shit, Gale, what did you do? What the hell did you take?” Finnick tries hauling Gale to his feet but he resists, shaking his head. His eyes, so unlike the sharp glare he normally dons, are slack and unfocussed.

“Fuck. Gale—”

“I can’t Finnick,” he slurs, sounding on the verge of tears. “I can’t take them. The pills. Don’t make me take them.”

“What did you take?” Finnick demands. “Answer me. Did something happen?”

He yanks at Gales hands, from where they’re sandwiched between his thighs. There’s drying blood flaking from his palms as well.

Finnick curses softly, but he can’t see where it’s from. Gale doesn’t look hurt, just completely out of it. Not his blood then.

“Gale,” he pleads. “For fucks sake. What the hell happened?”

“The pills. I fucked up, Finnick. He said I had to take them, said they’d help me relax.”

“Who?”

“I didn’t want to feel, Finnick,” he whispers, eyes still staring into the fourth dimension. “I didn’t want to feel but they made me not think.”

Finnick curses again and hauls him to his feet, shoving him towards the shower. At least he recognises Finnick, which considering how fucked he looks, is a small mercy. His fingers leave an unsteady trail of rusty-red that looks lurid against the white tile.

“What did he give you Gale? You’ve got to tell me.”

“I fucked up. I’m a fuck up. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Now his jaw’s gone slack and he’s still not reacting, not listening to Finnick. He’d honestly prefer it if he was hysterically crying, because Finnick can’t deal with this apathetic blankness. Gale’s slumped heavily on him and staring straight ahead, looking for the entire world without a trace of recognition in his eyes.

“You have to tell me what you did,” snaps Finnick, a little desperately. Gale just sways and stumbles, drawing languid circles on Finnick’s cheek in blood.

“Gale—” but then, he’s leaning into Finnick, his lips moving sloppily against Finnick’s neck. He’s getting blood there as well and the way his kissing is heavy and mechanical.

“What the fuck?” Finnick tries pushing him away but makes eye contact with that hollow, disassociated stare and nausea hits him like a truck. Gale sways again and collapses, his knees hitting the floor with a nasty crack.

He reaches down to help but now, Gale’s going for Finnick’s crotch almost robotically. “Gale. Gale. Hey. Stop,” he begs, yanking Gale up by the chin. Now he’s really alarmed. “Gale?”

There’s a tense pause. Gale’s stopped moving completely and his pupils are so dilated that Finnick can hardly see any grey—they’re still out of focus and his whole body’s started shaking.

“Gale? Oh no… no, no, no…” Finnick mutters, watching as his friend’s eyes roll back into his head and as foamy white spittle trickles from the corner of his lips, mingling with the dried blood smeared there.

His whole body’s convulsing before Finnick finally jumps up and does something.

Nothing feels quite real as he huddles in the corner of the bathroom as faceless paramedics in white suits fish the packet of pills out of pink toilet water and crowd around him and inject things into the hollow thing that used to be Gale. And the whole time, Finnick can’t stop wondering whose blood is smeared over the porcelain-white tiles and whose blood’s going to be spilled because of it.

 _Finnick’s responsibility._ God, for Gale’s sake, he hopes that the person he was seeing was nobody important.

* * *

They lie in silence until the afternoon bleeds into evening, before Thom walks him home, like he always does, until they both remember that Gale doesn’t live there anymore. Standing outside the empty shack in silence is the closest they’ve ever come to being awkward.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Thom asks, looking surprisingly nervous. “Before you leave for that stupid Victory Tour?”

“Can’t,” says Gale quietly scuffing his shoes on the road. “They send my prep team a day early.”

“Right.”

“It’s a week. Only a week. Then I’m coming back.”

Only he doesn’t. Come back, that is. It’s the first time he’s ever broken a promise to Thom and Gale can’t help hating himself for it, even if it isn’t his fault. He frowns, but a loud, obnoxious moan jerks him out of his thoughts.

He scowls at the woman in front of him as he tries to tune out the smell of her fanny and forces himself to slam into her again and again, willing himself to concentrate on the sensation and the sensation only, until he comes. How Finnick’s managed to do this shit for as long as he has is beyond Gale.

He feels disgusting. Sticky. Like there’s a layer of filth under his skin.

With shaky hands, Gale tries lighting up a cigarette in the rain but the smell reminds him of Thom, so he tosses it over the balcony.

Maybe he should have pressed it into his palm instead, over the ghost of a scar made with a pocketknife and a now-broken promise.

* * *

He sees him approaching, but still subconsciously tenses when Finnick reaches out. Maybe that’s an easy way to tell whether he’s mustered his cold, unfeeling capitol persona or if he’s just Gale.

He stills and draws his hand back but Gale exhales and seems to relax, hunching in on himself. Katniss’ victory tour is coming up and Gale’s scared. So scared. She’s fucked up without knowing it and he’s worried that she’ll say too much, not say enough, accidentally start something bigger than her or, worse, stifle the spark she’s created.

“No,” he says. “It’s alright. You can put your hand there.”

He’s still tense when Finnick replaces the hand on his shoulder but after a moment, leans into his touch. It’s the barest amount of physical contact, but it’s enough.

“How do you do it, Finnick?”

“Do what?”

“Carry on.” His voice sounds hopeless and it crushes Finnick to hear him sounding like that. Gale continues without looking up. “It’s been ten years since you won. And you’re still going; you’re still doing this shit.”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“No. I know.”

Finnick sighs and leans back on the couch, studying his friend. His face is thrown in shadow as he braces his arms on his knees and dips his head between his biceps, strong shoulders sagging in on themselves.

Gale takes it a lot harder than Finnick ever has. He comes home worse every night, whether it’s a dinner date, a party, or an orgy. Finnick hates it. Seeing Gale slowly breaking makes him angry and sometimes even scared and fuels a hate that he’s got nowhere to channel and it makes him want to think dangerous things that a certain girl on fire _might_ (and it’s a very slim _might_ ) have made possible.

Sometimes, Gale’s outright raging, swearing and spitting venom against his patrons, against the Capitol, against Snow—Finnick can’t do anything except stay out the way and wait for him to break, to come back into the bedroom with hollow eyes. Most of the time, he’s cold. Unfeeling. Unresponsive but polite when Finnick tries to speak to him, his words tipped with shards of ice. In some ways Finnick hates that more, because that’s not Gale—that’s the persona the Capitol created, that he doesn’t feel safe stepping out of sometimes.

Only rarely does he come back broken anymore. He knows what to expect now and he’s been fed a spark that toes on a knife’s edge between life and living hell. But when he’s had a particularly bad night, he’ll still come home and break down completely—sometimes, it’s hours huddled in the corner, trying to hold on, sometimes it’s crying that he still always tries to hide, sometimes it’s silent shaking with empty, unrecognising eyes and jumpy like a frightened rabbit. He always apologises, however many times Finnick tries to convince him that it’s okay, it’s alright, he understands.

It’s ruining him, and watching him spiral is ruining Finnick.

“I think I was raised for it.” Finnick says, numbly. He hasn’t taken his hand off Gale’s shoulder.

“What?”

“This life. I was raised for it, in a way. Youngest victor at 14 and all that. I was groomed to be in the public eye since I was a kid—I was young and I never really noticed it happening until it did. I didn’t realise all the people I met paid to meet me and maybe I was slow, maybe I didn’t believe it was possible, but I didn’t realise what they expected me to do until suddenly, the woman was naked next to me.”

He was 16 at the time. He was young and fresh and he genuinely believed that he owed the Capitol something for letting him live. Somewhere along the way, after the games he’d managed to bury the disillusionment behind him—he was alive after all and he didn’t mind meeting people, they liked him. He didn’t mind talking. He didn’t take notice of the touching. And he tried his best not to think of the dead kids he left in the arena, because that was dangerous water. A riptide of thoughts that shouldn’t see the light.

“I freaked and ran away,” Finnick continues, hollowly. “Took the next freight back to District 4. I don’t know how I didn’t realise it before—probably because I was so young. But it was like someone flipped a switch in my mind—it took sex for me to realise that my body wasn’t mine anymore.”

Gale’s face is impassive as he leans back against Finnick, tentatively at first. Testing. Like he’s forgotten casual touching is a thing. “And how do you live with it?”

“I tune it out.” It’s true. He’s stopped thinking about it a long time ago, burying the part of him that screams _not your body, not your mind_ and tries his best to treat it as a job. It’s easier to cope if he pretends it’s something he’s chosen to do. “I’ve stopped thinking. Given up control. And in that way, I’m the capitol’s whore through and through.”

“I can’t. I could never.”

“I know,” says Finnick simply. It’s just the way it is—Gale’s wired different. Hell, it’s a testament to the love he holds for his family that he hasn’t wrapped his hands around the throats of everyone who’s used him and watched their shallow lives drain away. He knows he dreams of it.

It physically hurts him. But still, Gale goes to events done up and smiling darkly, a hidden present for the next lucky cunt, armoured behind a thick wall of disconnect, indifference and hate. And sometimes, he can’t climb back out again.

“You’re losing yourself.” It’s not a question.

“I’m still here,” whispers Gale, a hint of bitter laughter escaping his lips, fleeting like a voice on the wind.

“Barely.”

He doesn’t argue. “How do you manage? What’s left behind once you’ve given your whole self to the Capitol?”

“Annie.” The name slips off his tongue like a butterfly—beautiful and delicate, and it doesn’t belong in a Capitol house filled with darkness.

“Just her?”

“She’s keeping the last piece of me, and she’ll give it back one day, when this is all over.”

Gale doesn’t even question what the fuck he’s talking about—he’s deep in thought and seems to understand. “It’s fragile.”

“Who cares? Nothing else matters anymore,” he says, his voice laced in bitterness. Gale’s words roll around his head like an echo. “If that’s all I am then so be it.”

Gale’s looking at him funny but he can’t figure out what for.


	2. Mask My Hate

It feels like a rug has been pulled out from under his feet, and he’s falling down into nothing, spinning and spiralling into darkness.

In the beginning, Gale couldn’t feel anything. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. His father, his rock, would walk through the kitchen door any minute with a rabbit he’d caught and kiss his mother, ruffle his hair, coo at baby Posy. But when Gale looked helplessly at his mother for guidance and she only stared, he knew it was real. But she didn’t shed a single tear when she told her children and implored them to stay strong, and that everything would be alright— _Daddy’s looking out for you. He loves you very much._

But now, standing in the Town Hall, it all feels very real and Gale isn’t sure if he can take it. _Stay strong._ He’s the oldest now and he’s got responsibilities.

So Gale wills himself not to cry, not to move a single muscle, as the Mayor calls him forwards and gives him a stupid, flimsy medal. As if that would ever make up for his father’s jovial laugh, chip-toothed whistle and warm arms. He wants to crush the thing under his foot, cast the cold metal out of the window and destroy it, never see it again.

But he doesn’t, because he’s got responsibilities now. So instead, he grits his teeth and accepts it, says _thank you, sir_ and heads back to stand with his family. Rory buries his face into his jacket but Gale doesn’t react. _Chin up, back straight. Hold it together._

There’s a woman on the other side of the room and she looks frail. Lost. So unlike his own mother, who’s standing regal, just like him. His family isn’t broken. They can hold each other together.

But the woman is almost sinking to the floor—there’s a tiny blonde girl, around Rory’s age, clinging to her like a lifeline—she doesn’t seem to notice her, still lost in her own grief.

The mayor calls another name forwards and a girl with fire in her eyes walks to the front. She shakes a little, but at least she’s standing. Gale watches when she pulls the little blonde girl to her, doing a mother’s job. She doesn’t look at him once. Just stares straight ahead, as poker-faced as he is.

Honestly, he isn’t surprised when they meet each other in the woods a few months later. They argue. They’re mean and stingy. But in the end, they’re all alone in the world and then suddenly, they’re hunting partners—then somehow along the way, friends.

It was a hopeless situation but Gale misses it. He misses her. But most of all, he misses being in control of what he did—he misses choosing to do something about it.

Now, instead of acting, there’s no other option. Thinking of other ways out is hopeless, and dangerous. All he can do is grit his teeth and bear it, take pills to numb the pain and ignore the filthy hands running all over him.

* * *

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. I want to.” His eyes are flashing defiantly but he’s blushing too. “I need the practise.”

“Gale, I—” Finnick’s fumbling over his words, because Gale has that effect on him. Hell, he wants a blow job, and he’s pretty sure Gale knows he does too—but he can’t get rid of the feeling that he’s using Gale and it doesn’t sit well.

“Finnick. I promise this is something I want to do. If you’ll let me.” He’s earnest, so earnest, and he knows damn well that Finnick won’t be able to say no.

“Alright, I— oh, _god—Gale—_ ”

He’s hard already (who wouldn’t be, with Gale standing over him half-naked and telling him all the dirty things he wants to do?) so with the first touch of lips on cock, he can’t help letting out a strangled moan. And _fuck,_ apparently, in the few days they’ve had, Finnick’s taught him well because Gale’s not messing around.

It takes everything he’s got not to come like a virgin in the next 30 seconds but years of experience help him hold onto himself. It’s because it’s Gale, and it’s because Gale’s beautiful looking him in the eyes and saying _I want to do this_ with every word honest; he’s beautiful kneeling in front of him with those dark eyelashes spilling over onto his cheekbones. And he’s beautiful when he grits his teeth and gets that steely look in his eye—it’s for his family, all for his family, never for himself.

Only the beauty is more of a curse than anything, because if he wasn’t beautiful and brooding and tragic, he wouldn’t be kneeling on the floor of a Capitol flat instead of running through the woods, free.

“Gale,” Finnick tries to sound assertive but it comes out more of a moan than anything. “You really—you really don’t have to.”

He lets his lips slide off Finnick’s dick with an obscene noise but doesn’t loosen his vice-like grip on his waist. The sight makes Finnick weak at the knees because Gale already looks fucked out—the colour’s high on his cheeks, his eyes dark and intense and— _god—_ his arousal is obvious, pressing painfully against the seams of his pants, and Finnick has to fight to contain another embarrassing moan.

“I want to,” repeats Gale, his voice raw and raspy. He wishes he could get used to the sound but _it’s one time Finnick, he’s not doing it again, you know it’s the last time goddammit—_

“But I—”

And Gale must understand, at least a little bit, understand that Finnick feels filthy at the idea of enjoying something _not his_ even though it’s good, too good—because he softens and rests his cheek on Finnick’s knee.

“I want to.” His voice is sad. Soft. A little desperate. “I want to enjoy it one last time, before the Capitol takes that from me too.”

He lets his eyes drift closed as he bites his lip and Finnick’s heart all but breaks. It’s the least he can do for Gale, after all—he’s only known him a week but feels like he knows him so much better than every single camera and interviewer during and after the games. He’s not a monster, he’s a kid forced to grow up too fast. A kid who grew up with resentment brewing in his veins and now it’s stewing over, so like Finnick but not at the same time. A young adult, raised to serve but born with a fire singing in his blood and it’s going to destroy him, Finnick knows it.

“I just—I just don’t know how you let them touch you and enjoy it,” he half-whispers in that hoarse voice and Finnick wants nothing more than to shield him from all those grabbing hands, lustful and blind, cruel and without compassion. He’s just been to his first _event_ and they probably ran their hands all over his skin. _Not his skin anymore._

Finnick feels hate, more hate than he’s felt in years, repressed but threatening to wash over and it’s all because Gale’s kneeling at his feet, practically begging for one last moment of pleasure before the Capitol takes that away from him too. It’s not fair; it’s never fair.

“Practise,” he replies bitterly. “And I hate it, but not with you; never with you.”

And then Gale’s got that steely look on his face again, passionate, and his lips are back on Finnick’s cock and Finnick’s hands fly down of their own accord and are tangled in his hair _(it’s grown a little on top, since the games, and it looks good)_ and it’s all he can do to keep himself upright.

“One last time,” he whispers, and Finnick can only moan in response.

* * *

He’s sitting on the balcony, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Little flecks of ash dance and fall off the side, glowing orange for a fleeting second before drifting down into the dark. Finnick’s never seen him smoke before.

“It wasn’t an accident,” he says, his voice flat. He doesn’t look up.

Finnick doesn’t ask what he’s talking about. He saw the footage, he saw the tiny blonde girl from District 12 getting reaped, and he saw her sister, desperate as she flung her body in front of the girl screaming _no_. He also saw the way Gale dragged the kicking and screaming girl away, and the way she burrowed her blonde hair into his jacket.

The volunteer, Katniss, stares straight ahead, not moving a muscle, and Haymitch has an ugly look in his eye when he laughs bitterly, congratulates her and falls face-first off the stage. Not a single person claps when their escort chirps _well done!_ —they make a gesture instead. Gale says it’s used for funerals. It’s fitting.

Finnick flops down beside him and accepts the cigarette he’s offered, taking a long drag.

“It’s my fault.”

“Don’t say that,” says Finnick, harshly.

“It is.” He replies simply. “From when I fucked up.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” Finnick snaps, suddenly very tired. It’s not Gale’s fault he was drugged, but Snow probably doesn’t care. There was a Capitol citizen’s blood on Gale’s fist and that’s all that mattered.

“Doesn’t matter. I fucked up and now I’m paying for it.”

Finnick doesn’t know what to say to comfort him so he just sits, offering all he can give, even though it will never be enough. They stay on the balcony until the cigarette’s only a stump and Gale casts the glowing butt down into the darkness, down with the ashes. There’s a slight tremor in his hands.

“I swear to fucking god,” he bursts out suddenly. “If Snow does what he does to me… I told Haymitch to bring her back alive at all costs, but I’m wondering if it was the right decision.”

_What if he does to her what he did to me?_ The words go unspoken. _Would it be kinder to let her die?_

“What’s Johanna’s secret?” Gale despairs. “She’s young, she’s attractive, why isn’t she a Capitol plaything? How come she can say what she likes?”

“She’s got nobody left to love,” replies Finnick quietly. “They already took it all. They’ve got no leverage but her own life.”

Gale stands up cursing, paces the balcony restlessly, running desperate hands through his hair and eventually swears again when he splits his knuckle punching a wall.

But he does let Finnick take him inside and clean up the blood, even if he is shaking a little at the kitchen table.

“I’m selfish.”

“Why?”

“If I cared, I’d tell her to run straight into the bloodbath and die before it starts. Before the Capitol starts taking.”

_Before the Capitol takes your morals, your mind, your whole body and being._

“Or at least tell her what really happens if you win—”

“They might let her live her life,” Finnick begins, sounding pained—his voice sounds hollow, even to him. He shuts up when Gale glares at him.

Even if they don’t whore her out _(normally they don’t, only the victors considered desirable are forced to go down that route—Katniss isn’t ugly, but her beauty isn’t what stands out, and maybe if she paints herself in an interesting angle in interviews her body will go overlooked—)_ it doesn’t matter in the end. All victors have it the same. She’s destined to spend the rest of her life sending generations of children to die in an arena and with that much blood on a person’s hands, there aren’t many options—stop feeling, or go insane. Lose your morals or go mad with guilt.

“I’m going to tell her, I can’t let her in blind.”

“You can’t,” Finnick answers bleakly.

Gale sighs and slumps over the table, knotting his hands together. He flinches when Finnick places a hand on his back but melts almost straight away.

“I can’t even do that, can I?”

Finnick shakes his head, though he suspects Gale’s mostly talking to himself, convincing himself he’s making the right choice.

“She’s going to win. And I’m not going to tell her anything. She’s going to win and I’m going to make it easy for her, even if she hates me afterwards.”

“Is she your girl?”

Gale just straight ahead with bleak eyes. “She might have been. In a different world.”

“It’s probably a good thing she isn’t,” says Finnick quietly.

“I know.” There’s a moment’s heavy silence. “Who do you do it for, Finnick? Why are you still going? You’ve never told me. Your family?”

He pauses—hesitates. Her name doesn’t belong here, in the Capitol. But Gale deserves to know, so he speaks and her name sounds wrong, foreign on his tongue. “Annie.”

“Annie?” his eyes are wide when he looks up. “Annie Cresta?”

He doesn’t add _Annie Cresta, your tribute, the poor mad girl from home_ and Finnick’s grateful for it. He nods stiffly.

“Since always?”

And there it is again, the ever-present divide between _before_ and _after._

“No,” says Finnick hollowly. “It might have been excusable if I did. But I fucked up and let her creep up on me and it’s the worst mistake I’ve ever made. It was only afterwards I realised, and I wish she’d died in that arena every day since.”

* * *

Finnick feels a laugh bubbling up— _Flower crowns._

He assumed Gale only put that down as his talent to piss off the Capitol, to throw his perfect camera-persona off, and hell, that’s probably still the reason he did it—but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s damn fucking good at it. God knows why.

Finnick’s personal favourite is simple. He doesn’t know what the flowers are called but they’re small and white, almost like sprays, and they’re all woven together tightly with long, thin green stems. The crown is dotted with pretty little star-shaped flowers, also white, and yellow ones that look a bit like dandelions. It’s sturdy and steady and bursting with life and above all, it looks like the kind of thing you could find in the wild in District 12.

“When you’re out. With patrons. Sometimes they offer you a tip,” Finnick remarks.

“Huh?” Gale looks up, startled. The tips of his fingers are stained green from the crown he’s working on now.

“You know. After your date, or sex, or sucking their toes or whatever the hell it is. They might ask to tip you.”

Gale scoffs. “Ask them to tip what? Money?”

“No,” says Finnick, with a sly smile. He puts down his splicing; the fid catches the light just so and it glitters silver. “Secrets. Secrets they won’t think anything of letting slip to a whore in the dark, half-secrets that don’t mean anything on their own and could mean nothing anyway.”

Finnick remembers every secret he’s ever been told. They’re all buried deep in the back of his mind, dark thoughts, creeping through the nooks and crannies and lurking at the tip of his tongue. They’re not made for being written down; not meant for being spoken in daylight. But they’re there.

“Oh.” Gale gives a smile that’s almost sinister, despite the flowers he’s cradling. He gets it. Finnick can tell. “That. That, I can do.”

Then, he’s turned back to his work but the smile’s not quite left his lips.

Half an hour later he sits up and tosses the completed flower crown across the room, where is lands crookedly on Finnick’s head. Finnick jumps in surprise and Gale grins, a delighted smile that makes Finnick’s heart a little faster. It’s youthful, with a touch of pride—it’s the small joy of his aim being true and landing a crown of _flowers_ squarely on Finnick Odair’s head.

“You know, those flowers suit you,” he deadpans.

Finnick scoffs. “I look good in anything.”

Gale just shrugs and laughs, the sound tumbling into the cold Capitol flat and making it just a little warmer. He wanders off towards the kitchen and Finnick catches sight of his own reflection in the dark windows.

Truthfully, Gale was right—it looks damn good. It’s made of vibrant orange and red lilies that splay outward like tongues, the whole think shot through with streaks of deep blue that clashes with his bronze hair. But he’s mostly surprised at just how young he looks in the moment.

He still looks a little startled, his cheeks a little pink, his eyes wide open and the remains of a laugh hovering around his lips. And what with hastily-removed makeup still lingering around his eyes, Finnick thinks he looks very out of this world.

* * *

They do what they do every year on the day of the reaping—their routine is almost identical now. Even the underlying bitterness that always comes to prominence on reaping days is still there, hanging like a cloud, oppressive. The woods feel hollow and so does his own companionship.

Gale barely speaks when Katniss comes through the bushes and sits next to him, on their rock ledge. She tries to smile but it looks strained. There’s tenseness between them that was never there before and Gale knows it’s his fault, but he can’t bring himself to try, not anymore.

Prim’s given Katniss a little wheel of goat’s cheese. It tastes like home—it’s simple and flavourful and so much better than the lavish food served at the Capitol. Paired with soft bread and early blackberries, it’s perfect.

He sees her looking at him out of the corner of her eyes but ignores it. He’s feeling distant. There are too many thoughts in his head that he can’t say out loud and the peace of the woods helps him drown them out.

He doesn’t think, only feels numbness as he surveys his snares with methodical precision. Katniss always hides them well enough but they’re never quite in the right place—only about three have anything in them. There are squirrels in two, and a rabbit in the third—not children.

“What’s happened to you?” she bursts out, but it’s hesitant, like she’s scared she’s saying the wrong things. Her eyebrows are knitted in concern.

Gale jumps violently—he’d spaced out staring at the now-empty snare. But he collects himself quickly and smooths out his features and throws her a smile.

“What do you mean? Nothing’s happened, only another year and another couple of dead kids,” he replies, unable to stop the bitterness leaking out of his voice. “Nothing’s happened to me, I’m still alive, see?”

“No, Gale…” she reaches out to touch his arm in what would have been a comforting gesture but he pulls his arm away, repulsed. Last year, he didn’t think any of it. Now, he can’t stand the idea—her hand in his feels wrong, dirty. Vaguely, Gale wonders if he’s going off the deep end, like Annie Cresta, the mad victor from District 4. He’s met her once and she spent most of the night huddled in the corner with her hands over her ears—and Gale pretty much wanted nothing more than to go join her.

“You’ve changed.”

“No shit,” Gale mutters, his voice sounding distant in his own ears as he carefully re-rigs the snares. His own fingers seem disembodied, pale and long and nails filed into perfect ovals, as they move over the contraption of rope.

“You’re never around anymore,” she says, her tone accusing—he doesn’t blame her. He knows _(knew)_ Katniss and their bond was a lot stronger than just hunting partners. Stronger than friends, even. Sure, his victor’s money keeps his family and Katniss’ well fed but they’re not companions anymore. He’s drifted away, whether he meant to or not.

Sometimes, Gale thinks maybe his subconscious is doing it on purpose.

“I’ve been busy,” he replies, vaguely, even though he knows damn well that she can see through his bullshit. But he can’t do anything about it apart from lie better—he can’t say anything, not even to her, and he knows it. “Capitol business. Because last year I… won.”

The word sounds nasty in his mouth. Even Katniss cringes. She reaches out again, but Gale sidesteps it, pretending not to notice the hurt over her features.

“Come on,” says Gale. _Put on a brave face._ “We need to get back. To make it in time to trade these before the reaping.”

They don’t say another word. Last year, they would have joked around to ease the tensions of the reaping, to vent their resentment in the only way they can. Last year, Gale ranted at the sky, spewing hate for the system, the injustice of the games, the tesserae—but now, he’s keeping his mind dutifully blank and mouth shut, stopping the vile words slipping off his tongue and disturbing his only sanctuary.

He keeps his face neutral as they near the fence but she doesn’t stop looking at him with a strange expression on her face. Maybe she thinks he’s become a capitol lap dog, or that the Games crushed something in him. She’s right, but not in the way she might think. She doesn’t understand. He hopes she never does.

Gale pauses to let Katniss crawl under the fence first. Her dark hair catches a little on the bottom of the fence and in his mask of indifference, Gale feels a dull ache somewhere in his gut, an imprint of what he used to feel for this girl. His mind doesn’t remember the sensation but his body does—he yearns to wrap his arms around her, but he can’t.

It’s almost an out-of-body experience, picturing himself in this exact spot, a year ago. He can almost see the old Gale, helping her up with a smirk and an _up you get, Catnip_ even though he knows damn well she doesn’t need his hand, while she scowls to hide the blush dusting her cheeks.

But he doesn’t know how to connect with the girl in front of him anymore, and knows even less how to connect with the old version of him.

Gale goes straight to Haymitch afterwards—he’s drunk as usual and familiar territory. He can sit in silence with Haymitch and he won’t ask questions or look at him funny. So he just sits and waits, clench-jawed, while Haymitch steadily gets wasted.

In the moment, he’s jealous of him—he’s got nobody left to care about. If only he was like Haymitch; then he could live in a basement and drink himself sick and puke on Effie’s stupid sparkly shoes in peace.

* * *

Gale cooks him breakfast sometimes. It’s nice. He always makes Finnick’s coffee just right, so much better than even Finnick does.

Normally, it’s eggs and toast, with a tomato for Gale—he likes his eggs soft boiled and his bread cut in strips. He says it reminds him of home, whenever he’d find a pheasant’s nest in the woods. But for Finnick, he’s creative.

Finnick doesn’t normally like breakfast but he eats whatever Gale makes him, whether it’s eggs and bacon or waffles and ungodly amounts of whipped cream or even little fried kippers that taste delicious with cantaloupe (Gale served that as a joke; Finnick decided it was actually kind of tasty.)

They mess around together, sometimes making bitter jokes about their lives, the Games and the Capitol, cynical comments that crack them up and sometimes make their day-to-day a little more bearable. The rest of the time, Finnick spends figuring out the man he lives with now. Gale’s interesting and Finnick’s always been good at people-watching.

He wonders if he’s catching glimpses of what Gale was like _before_. He’s still strong willed but he’s passionate, unlike TV Gale. There’s something about the way he speaks that’s naturally convincing and he’s bold. Charismatic. He’s got a vision, and a strong sense of justice.

Of course, Finnick prefers it when he catches glimpses of a Gale that could have existed _without—_ without the Capitol, without the games. It’s rare but sometimes he laughs like there’s nothing weighing him down and it makes Finnick’s heart miss a few beats.

But when he’s cold and indifferent, it hurts. Finnick knows it’s not just the Games and suspects that Gale’s always been like that to some extent. He’s worried all his life about putting food on his family’s plate since his dad died in the mines (a fact that Finnick managed to pry out of him on one of his good days) but he’s always thought bigger too—he resents things he can’t change and authority is one of them. In some ways, he’s surprised Gale doesn’t already have wrinkles.

But still, even Finnick can’t quite differentiate between Gale’s resting bitch face and the scowl he puts on for television screens. Try as he might, Gale’s good at masking his hate with indifference and his indifference with mystery. Maybe if he knew him better, it would be easier.

But sometimes, when Finnick catches Gale staring into some distant spot in the wall, his look intense enough to bore holes or glazed enough not to notice Finnick walking right in front, he wonders if maybe Gale doesn’t know himself.

He suspects that Gale’s struggling to draw the distinction between the two parallel versions of his own mind. Maybe, contrary to popular belief, it would be easier to just act out a whole new façade for the cameras. At least that way, it would be easy to draw the line between the real person and the capitol persona. Then it would be impossible to get lost completely.

Finnick thinks maybe the Capitol’s taken all of him already, except for the part he leaves with Annie. Gale’s words ring through his head and for the first time, he lets it bother him. But there’s nothing he can do.

* * *

Finnick’s having a nightmare. He’s drowning, he’s being dragged down, but the water is perfectly glass-smooth on top. Not even his flailing makes ripples—they die away too quickly in the expanse of water. There’s no noise. His splashing sounds hollow and muted and nothing comes from his throat. It smells like chlorine and roses.

He’s sure there was more but that’s all he remembers when he finally opens his eyes—there’s a man next to his bed and a hand stroking smooth circles on the back on his hand.

“Gale?” He must have been screaming in his sleep because his throat feels hoarse. Finnick shudders and shuts his eyes, letting his heart rate calm down and waiting for his chest to stop heaving. It’s been a while since his last nightmare—they’re rarer these days, what with time and a busy schedule, but they never go away completely.

“I’m here.”

His voice sounds strangely muted, like he’s underwater, and Finnick’s eyes fly open in panic. He doesn’t say anything for a while, just grips Gale’s hand to remind himself that he’s here, he’s real, he’s not lost, while Gale strokes soothing circles with his thumb. It’s soft. Tender. It’s a side of him that he’s never seen before and in an inexplicable way, the sad way he’s looking at Finnick almost reminds him of Annie.

It makes him choke up a bit so he swallows and tries to speak. “I’m sorry. For waking you.”

“I don’t mind.”

Finnick relaxes his death grip on Gale’s fingers, slightly embarrassed, but Gale doesn’t let go.

“You don’t mind?”

“Not you. Never you.” He hesitates a moment and looks down at their entwined fingers. “If you wanted—I could—”

“Yeah, okay,” Finnick finds himself saying, then Gale’s timidly swung his leg over onto the bed and they’re clumsily tangled together. It’s the closest they’ve been since the one time they fucked and he’s warm and steady and solid and it’s exactly what Finnick needs.

“Thank you,” he whispers before he can get too choked up because even though they’re so, so different, the soft way Gale’s acting almost reminds him of Annie on her good days, when she lets Finnick into her head. So he pulls Gale closer and buries his face into his shoulder and breathes him in—there’s something floral there, mixed with a hint of sweat and cheap soap. It’s only half what he should smell like but Finnick doesn’t care, not when they fit together so well.

They lie there until dawn and Finnick’s sure neither of them sleep. But it’s nice anyway. He could stay there forever, in his half-waking state, wrapped in Gale’s arms where nothing much seems to matter. Maybe they’re both a bit broken but Finnick lives for the small moments, the ones that are familiar and nice and feel so right.

* * *

There’s a frown on Gale’s face as he stares at the screen. It’s carefully arranged. Finnick’s pretty sure it’s impossible to tell what’s going through Gale’s head right now.

“She looks so stupid,” he laments. “Look at that dress. It’s not her. She looks about fourteen and dumb— vapid. I can’t stand her giggling and clutching onto that dimwit.”

“He’s not stupid,” says Finnick quietly. “His strategy was phenomenal and the way he holds himself and speaks? It’s powerful.”

They speak lightly but they both know it’s not the real issue here. But neither of them can voice what they’re really thinking because it’s fragile and dangerous, too risky to dare putting into words. It’s like stepping carefully on a thin layer of ice.

Gale’s been a wreck recently, even if he doesn’t show it. Somehow he’s managed to hold it together but there’s only so much tension he can take. Speaking to him is like balancing a knife on a tightrope and Finnick has to choose every word delicately.

He still smiles through his teeth to conceal a burning hatred but the sight of the girl he loves on screen seems to have given him a tighter hold on reality, for better or for worse. Because slowly, he’s honing all the blind, bottled-up hate into something else that scares Finnick.

It’s rolling and churning inside of him, gears twisting in his mind, forging something dangerous, something that could be used. Finnick can almost see it brewing under the surface of his Capitol-clean skin, racing dark through his blood, as he stares intently at the young couple on screen while sweet nothings gush from painted smiles.

It’s sinister.

It’s like watching him during the Games. Because just like he stopped seeing children and saw prey instead, he’s not looking at the girl he loves anymore. He’s staring at a tool. A catalyst. A symbol or a token for _something else_ , too fleeting to form into a thought but dangling just out of reach.

And for the first time, Finnick sees something in Gale to be truly scared of. He thinks that maybe, if they reached out to touch, Finnick would flinch away instead.

* * *

His teacher is yelling at him again, and Gale’s mad.

But it’s different, this time. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t done anything stupid or even irritating and she doesn’t sound annoyed, or furious or even disappointed. No, she sounds almost scared.

“And don’t you _ever_ say such things again—you understand?” she finishes, strands of ashy blonde escaping her perfectly pinned hair. The rest of the class is silent and wide-eyed in fear—they’ve never seen their teacher in this state before.

Gale opens his mouth to retort, but slowly the haze lifts from his mind and he realises that maybe, just this once, he should let it go. Even though he’s right, and it’s not fair. So he nods mutely instead, letting his scowl show his disapproval.

“Good.” She’s quietened down considerably and for some reason, looks shaken. Now Gale’s concerned too. What did he say that was so bad? “See me after school. We need to have a talk about your behaviour.”

He opens his mouth again, to say that he can’t, not when he has to go home and help his mum with Rory because she’s going to have another baby soon and she’s tired—but there’s a look in Miss Edwoods’ eye that tells him there’s no point arguing. If he’s good, it will probably only be a few minutes anyway.

So at the end of the day, he dutifully goes back to her classroom, trying to look as demure as possible. To his surprise, she doesn’t look angry or disappointed, only very serious and very tired. Gale’s never thought of his teacher as an actual person but right now, he’s a little confused to see her looking old and weary and like she actually cares.

“I’m very sorry Miss Edwoods,” he says, trying to sound apologetic but it comes out sounding sarcastic. To his surprise, she doesn’t even scold him for cheek. She’s being very surprising today.

“Do you know what for?”

“No,” he admits. “I was just saying my opinion.”

“I know,” she says. “And you shouldn’t have to be sorry for it.”

Gale frowns, indignant, but his teacher silences him with a look. “But. But you’re old enough now to know that some things shouldn’t be said out loud, or even thought.”

There’s an edge to her voice that sends shivers down Gale’s spine. But he pushes it, like he always does, like he always has. “Why?”

She frowns and beckons him forwards, but keeps her voice light and steady. “I’m sure you know about the history of the Panem and how our nation was formed?”

“Yes miss.” Of course he does. It’s been drilled into his head the second he stepped into pre-school. It’s exactly what they were discussing today, in fact.

“So you know how our nation is sustained?”

“Yes miss.” He grits his teeth because he still doesn’t see how it’s fair that he’s always hungry and his dad has to be down in the mines every day for six days a week while the people in the Capitol laugh and dress up in stupid clothes.

“So tell me then. How does it keep functioning like clockwork?”

He forces himself to spit out the words. “Each District, as one nation, acting together unified, who all work individually to make sure our glorious Panem survives.”

Again, it sounds sarcastic but Miss Edwoods doesn’t tell him off. She’s looking at him like she’s given him a hint for a maths problem, like she expects something to click in his mind.

Oh. _Oh._ Gale feels cold all of a sudden. Because it makes sense. There is a reason they can’t disagree and there is a reason why nothing’s fair.

And suddenly Gale’s earlier comment _(it’s hardly a stable nation if it needs the Hunger Games to remind people to behave)_ seems stupid.

Miss Edwoods gives him a tight-lipped smile and hands him a piece of paper. “As punishment, I expect you to complete this extra maths work by the end of the weekend. Happy Hunger Games.”

And just like that, he’s dismissed. Eloise Oliver and Grant Thurkle are reaped that weekend and Gale tries not to think about how that could be him in a few years. Afterwards, Thom comes over to his house and Rory learns the F word and Gale does the maths work in an hour and it’s easy because he knows that Miss Edwoods knows he likes sums.

* * *

It’s always been difficult to put Gale in a box, even in a single moment, so right now Finnick settles on _not quite psychotic_ as an accurate description.

He doesn’t laugh as he stares straight ahead. Beetee’s leaked footage into their capitol TV and now the screen is full of anger—it reflects the expression on Gale’s face. There’s people rallying there. Smoke. Fire. Destruction, but nothing’s rising from the flames—not yet.

Finnick winces as he watches a peacekeeper empty a round into the crowd for the third time in a row—District 8 rebels have been holding onto a town centre for a few days but even before their eyes, there are more peacekeepers arriving. District 11 has been restless for years and District 3 looks like it’s on the cusp of something too. Finnick’s scared but almost dizzy with something else—if it’s not excitement, it’s anticipation. But it’s still fragile and nobody has a real plan forwards and they still don’t dare voice it in their little flat.

And Gale? Gale’s been staring at the footage with intense focus for the past hour. He’s not wearing clothes apart from plain cotton boxers, and his whole body is taught. Finnick watched him throw the capitol clothes he was wearing straight off with a look of disgust. The expression on his face is the one he wears all the time now, whether he’s working or not. It’s dark. Brooding. Eyes hooded, intense. And Finnick hates it.

There are cruel things running through his mind as he watches peacekeepers shoot the crowd of rebels over and over again, indifferent to the sprays of blood and their muted shouting. He’s searching for details. For anything useful, for a plan. A strategy. And it’s brewing slowly, his brilliant, troubled mind gearing and shifting, dark thoughts of snares and traps and war, of luring the Capitol to their downfall.

And it might work, but Finnick’s not sure it’s worth it if he loses his humanity along the way. It’s a selfish thing to think but it’s Gale, and Gale’s his responsibility.

“Gale. Hey Gale.”

Finnick pokes him, adopting a light tone. It’s difficult to know what to say around him when he’s in a mood.

Gale doesn’t flinch or take his eyes away, so Finnick dumps himself unceremoniously off his lap. He knows outright turning the television off is a step too far but he _needs_ Gale to snap out of it.

“Move, Finnick,” he says, but makes no move to push him off so he stays there, sprawled over his lap, half in front of the TV.

“Gale,” he pleads. “You’ve watched it three times.”

He’s ignored. It’s another 20 minutes before Gale turns it off in silence. He turns around to face Finnick, with his grey eyes blazing with something dark. “Haymitch has to go through with this, you hear me?”

Finnick gulps. He knows what Gale’s talking about and he doesn’t like it. “That’s not fair on Katniss,” he whispers, hoping her name will bring Gale out of his terrifying daze. He’s supposed to love her, after all.

Neither of them mentions _rebellion,_ because it’s too risky, too soon. It’s a slim hope, even if it’s the best one they’ve got. Both of them know Snow threatened her, probably with her family’s lives on the stake.

“It doesn’t matter,” says Gale, his voice so low it’s almost a growl. “She’s started something that we can’t let go of.”

“Gale.”

But he just carries on glaring, in that intense but unfocused way that scares Finnick shitless and even though he knows Gale’s right, even though it’s the only straw they’ve got to grasp it, he hates the way he’s speaking. So Finnick grits his teeth in desperation and shuts him up the only way he knows.

Gale’s fingers on his hips will leave bruises tomorrow and the teeth on his neck scratch hard enough to bleed. It’s rough and demanding and so _Gale_ and Finnick comes with his name on his lips, with tears in his eyes and a sob in his throat as he grasps the bedsheets for something to keep him from spiralling down into the deep.

Afterwards, Gale leaves the bed for a shower without a second look. And Finnick’s left lying there staring at the ceiling, cold but too tired to change the sticky sheets. He feels hollow, like the last little part of him left the room with Gale and it feels like shit. Because that wasn’t Gale.

Finnick’s not enough; he’s never enough, however hard he tries.

Because that _wasn’t_ Gale, that was capitol Gale, and Finnick isn’t there in his eyes. Just like all the people who run their filthy hands over him. And maybe that’s who Finnick is too—the only difference is that Gale looks at him with indifference, not disgust.

He comes back in naked, with the same dark look over his features and Finnick shuts his eyes, blocking the image from his mind and desperately trying not to break down completely. _Numb. Don’t feel. It’s easier._

Gale’s back is as pale and broad and unblemished as ever, but Finnick knows now. The Capitol can try and erase the scars as much as they like; to smooth over the imperfections and pretend they were never there, but they can never scrub away the deep wounds that run underneath. They can’t touch the darkness heaving and swelling below. They can’t make people forget about the scars under their skin.

Finnick doesn’t feel the blanket being tucked around him or hear the broken _I’m sorry_ that ghosts across his cheek like a last kiss _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed part 1! 
> 
> there WILL be a sequel at some point (idk when i'm kind of busy whoops) so subscribe to the series if you liked it 
> 
> Jx


End file.
